


The Captain's Boy

by poisontaster



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Alley Sex, Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Hand Feeding, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Blow Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Situational Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-07
Updated: 2008-02-07
Packaged: 2019-05-26 12:56:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15001349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: Jack's been wanting to do this all night.





	The Captain's Boy

The note is on his desk when Ianto returns from feeding Myfanwy. It's Jack's looping, swaggering scrawl, but he'd know who it was from, even without that.

_Wear what's in the bag._

_Wear only what's in the bag._

_No talking._

_Meet me out front in exactly fifteen minutes._

It's reflex that makes him fumble his watch from his waistcoat and set the time, because there's no feeling in his fingers, only a cold rushing through his veins: anticipation, desire, fear…all of these. He looks up toward Jack's aerie and finds those blue eyes looking steadily back at him. Ianto nods once, firmly— _understood_ —and closes his fingers around the folded brim of the crinkling brown paper bag. Cloth shifts inside and he thinks, _Of course it's wrapped in brown paper. Of course it is._

Heat in his face, then. This is all very pornographic. And, as usual, no one seems to notice, which makes it all the better. Or worse. 

Gwen issues a breezy goodbye on her way out the door and his hand jerks up automatically. Gwen's gone before he'd have to give any reply—for which he's eternally grateful—and he clutches the paper bag tighter and slinks away, already half-hard.

_Tick, tick, Ianto._

*

Oh, no.

Oh, no, he _must_ be kidding. 

Except he knows Jack is doing no such thing and that he'll expect Ianto to follow his instructions to the letter. 

"I look like a rentboy," Ianto says to the mirror, dismayed of course, but also turning it over on his tongue, tasting it, like a too-sweet sherry. 

The clothes are entirely too small, though the quality's very good. Black silk tee-shirt, black lightweight trousers, wide black belt with an enormous square buckle. Ianto thinks about the uses to which _that_ could be put and heat flushes through him again. He tucks his fingers in the short sleeves and tries to loosen them around his milk-pale biceps, tugs the belly out in a vain attempt to make it not… _cling_ quite so much. 

There's absolutely nothing that can be done about the way the pants cup his arse. And no underwear. Absolutely _no_ underwear—of course not—and Ianto shifts gingerly from foot to foot, feeling himself swing loose and vulnerable and…

Easy access.

The metre of the stopwatch reminds him that he's on a clock. Time to stop dithering and either buck up or back out. Except he knows he won't back out.

Jack's given him instructions.

*

"You look…" An inhale. On both sides, though Ianto thinks he's the only one holding his breath. "You look great."

Exhale.

It's cold out on the street and breezy—in more ways than one—but seeing Jack's smile when Ianto emerges from the stairs makes a little chill insignificant. Jack steps close and squeezes Ianto's fingers briefly before pulling something unseen from his pocket and making Ianto tip his head back, into the light.

Ianto looks sidelong as Jack's hand comes up and he sees the stick, almost fragile looking between Jack's fingers. An eyeliner pencil.

_You've got to be joking._

He can't say the words, both tongue-tied and compelled, but he jerks his face away, looks at Jack with them in his eyes. 

Jack's shoulders slump in the fake-surrender he does. "Relax, will you?" He tilts Ianto's head again. "This won't hurt a bit."

The tip of the pencil is surprisingly cold as Jack draws neat lines across Ianto's upper and lower lids. Their thighs brush and he can feel the warmth of Jack emanating from beneath his spread out greatcoat. Ianto wonders who else Jack's done this for, how many others. He thinks about the delicate lines around John Hart's eyes and then he bottles it up and puts it away. Jack is here, now. With him.

"Gorgeous," Jack pronounces when he's done and the unfeigned warmth of it makes Ianto shiver with awareness of the external cold. Jack's mouth nuzzles briefly across Ianto's, not quite a kiss, and then he steps away, sweeping his coat off in a gesture worthy of a matador and slinging it around Ianto's shoulders. 

_Mine._

In the shadow of the coat, Jack's fingers seek Ianto's again, linking through and then tugging. Ianto's path is clear here. He follows where Jack leads him.

*

…which is apparently a very swank, very private restaurant. There's no sign over the door, just a discreet doorknob and a brass placard that says _Ring for service_. The doorman knows Jack by name and doesn't even blink at Ianto with his made up face and too-tight clothes. Ianto burns anyway, marked for what he is in Jack's clothes, Jack's coat, with Jack's guiding hand on the small of his back in simple, casual possession.

Jack stands behind Ianto and too close in the ancient, rattling lift, his breath skimming Ianto's cheek until Ianto feels it, like a touch. He's so focused on that, on his body and Jack's body and the infinitesimal space that separates them that he nearly whites out until the lift operator throws the lever and they lurch to a stop. 

This is all done in silence—his and theirs—and Ianto is aware of the desire welling within him to scream. To take this rising, inexorable tension and scream it out of himself before it kills him. His heart beats so fast and for a moment, he's not sure he can make himself move from the lift at all. 

Then Jack touches him again, just the firm brush of fingertips against the small of his back and murmurs, "Come on, Ianto," and Ianto lurches into motion, out of the lift and across the dried-blood carpet. 

The hostess is a beautiful black woman with freckles and thick, wild hair. She smiles hugely at Jack and he kisses her cheek and greets her by name. The two of them flirt their way across the dining room while Ianto follows in their wake, fighting the urge to hunch and make himself small. 

The dining room is huge, subtle tricks of acoustics keeping the sound hushed and indistinct, though the room is far from empty. They're seated at a table close to the centre of the room (of course they are; only the best for Cap'n Jack) and Jack sprawls out, his arm thrown over the back of Ianto's chair as he surveys the room. Ianto sits very straight.

"They have the best steaks here," Jack muses, fingertips tickling down the nape of Ianto's neck in petting stripes. "Absolutely the best anywhere. And from me, that's saying something."

But of course, Jack doesn't consult with Ianto about what he wants. He orders for both of them, hand in Ianto's lap, kneading Ianto's thigh, pulling his legs open while the waitperson takes it all down. Ianto looks at his own hands resting quietly on his other leg, his head heavy on his neck. He's more than half-hard and the snug trousers don't at all leave that to the imagination. 

He should get up and leave, he knows that. Sitting here, mute, letting Jack maul him, fondle him, so casual about it, like it's a damned game. Sitting here with this crap on his face, done up like a whore and his cock so hard it could burst. It's disgusting. It's obscene. 

But from within him, so softly it could almost be lost in all the other noise is that quiet, stubborn voice that says, _I don't want to._

Why he should listen to that voice, above all the others, Ianto doesn't know. 

He only knows he does. 

Every time. Every time, when Jack does this to him…not _this_ specifically, this is a new kind of torture…but this, with the blindfolds, tying him up with his own neckties or worse, simply _telling him_ in that calm maddening tone, what he's going to do to Ianto, what Ianto is going to do or not (No talking). Every time Ianto wants to walk away. To be done with it and to be done with Jack. 

And then that voice speaks up, casts its one dissenting vote, and overrules everything Ianto knows as sense. 

"I'm the luckiest man in here." Jack leans over and whispers it into Ianto's ear, _pours_ it in, like honey or like poison, and Ianto's thoughts, any thought, scatters to oblivion.

*

When they bring the food, Jack has them clear away Ianto's silver, cutting up each mouthful and then feeding him with his fingers, like a child.

"Look," Jack murmurs, still so maddeningly close, and Ianto does; he looks. Jack presses a heartbreakingly delicious strawberry, smeared with chocolate and cream, through Ianto's lips and Ianto takes it from him, licking sweetness and salt from Jack's fingers. "Look at all these people. Looking at you. Wanting you."

 _Wanting **you** ,_ Ianto corrects in his mind.

"Wanting to _be_ you, beautiful and loved and cared for…" A sudden nip of Jack's teeth, just on the lobe of Ianto's ear and Ianto's knee jerks, rattling the table. "They're all just jealous."

Ianto turns his head to see Jack then. He's dizzy with all this food and the champagne—he's got no head for booze, just ask anyone—and he needs to see Jack's eyes. He needs the steadiness they provide. But he only gets a quick flash of durable, brilliant blueness before they close and Jack's face tilts into his. 

Ianto has exactly no time to think _oh, but wait…_ before Jack's mouth covers his, forcing him open. 

_…they'll all see…_

Ianto's shivering. His eyes are closed and he's shivering and it's hard to hold onto anything except the skin-warmed cotton of Jack's shirt and the elasticised roughness of his braces, wound around Ianto's palms. 

_…they can see us…_

Jack's breath enters him, fills his lungs, fills his whole chest and yet Ianto can't seem to find any air, suffocating, mad with anoxia, slipping toward an unknown darkness and yet _completely unable to care._

And then Jack is leaning back, his smile a little askew on his swollen mouth and his eyes darkened and hazy. Ianto stares at him, at that mouth, and there is no thought. There's nothing at all.

*

"Get up."

 _Finally!_ Ianto thinks, when Jack finishes his coffee and sets it down with a crisp clink. Ianto didn't have any coffee, too wired to even contemplate hyping himself up that much further. And hoping—futilely, as it turns out—that not having coffee might hurry Jack up the least little bit. 

But no. 

Instead, Jack lingered over it, fussing with sweetener and cream until Ianto took it away from him, poured another cup and assembled it the way Jack likes it, his hands shaking with impatience and lust. And then Jack took forever to drink it, the slow, sly curve of his lips and the twinkle in those damnable eyes telling Ianto that Jack knew every curse and plea going through Ianto's mind as Ianto sat there, nearly twitching.

Not that he would do anything so visibly crass, you understand. 

Jack bracelets Ianto's wrist with his hand and Ianto can feel his own pulse, banging against the skin. He feels swollen with it, raw, stripped more naked than the costume Jack's put him in. His cock is like a branch, a tree, hanging loose between his legs. And as they cross the endless sea of carpet, Ianto thinks again _finally_ , his mouth sour and dry with anticipation.

But instead of taking him back to the slow and elderly lift, Jack breaks off right, down a darkened corridor, finishing up at a walnut door with another bronze placard that reads _Gentlemen._

Oh, no. 

No, he can't…

Except Ianto knows very well that Jack _can._ That he will and probably does. 

Ianto jerks against Jack's grip, once and sharply, though not away. They stop, the two of them, and Jack turns to look back at Ianto, eyebrows canted sharply. 

"You can leave any time you like, Ianto." The words are not a threat, Ianto knows that. They're both softly and kindly spoken, an out that Ianto is always aware is there, even when it remains unsaid. The look in Jack's eyes ensures it, the endless compassion that overlays the thick streak of pure bastard. 

He _can_ leave any time he likes, he knows that. Nothing holds him here. Nothing. He is a free man. 

Ianto's eyelashes flutter down, he bends his head.

Jack's breath is almost a gasp. He steps into Ianto with frightening swiftness, pushing him against the wall, hands cradling Ianto's face, his neck on either side, as his mouth devours, taking, _taking_ until Ianto is rutting himself mindlessly on Jack's thigh, whining and clutching.

_Please. Please._

He lets Jack pull him into the men's room.

Jack flashes his badge and orders the attendant out. Jack is in full blaze mode, a force of nature and not a kind one. The attendant looks at them both—Jack afire and intense and Ianto, blushing and debauched—and skedaddles, leaving them alone. 

Jack turns the lock and it sounds…definite. Final. He puts his hand on Ianto's shoulder. "Down."

Ianto goes to his knees like the strings have been cut, already yearning into Jack's groin, nuzzling, smelling, as he fumbles with unsteady hands to undo the button and zip. Jack shrugs his braces off and Ianto frees Jack's cock, his mouth already loose, wet with spit. 

"Ianto."

Ianto looks up. Jack's fingers hook under his chin, silk and steel. They're hot. They're so hot and he wonders how Jack doesn't catch fire for real, burning the whole building down around him. "I'm going to fuck your mouth now. So if you're not…"

Ianto doesn't let Jack get any further than that, dipping his head to take Jack in, tongue sliding across the crown, the ridge, following the rigid vein along the shaft. Jack bucks and then pulls back, fingers tracing through Ianto's hair, reaching to grip at the back. Ianto hums and Jack's startled, pleased laugh falls onto him like snowflakes.

Ianto tilts his head, slacks his mouth and lets his hands fall onto his own bunched thighs. 

Jack is…not kind, fingers twisted brutally in Ianto's hair, the coarse rub of cock across Ianto's lips, his tongue, hammering against his palate, choking down the softness of his throat. Ianto loses time, bound only into this, into Jack, into making him _feel_ Ianto, lose himself in Ianto…

…and then, all too soon, Jack is pulling away, an unsteady and awkward step backward across the linoleum. 

Ianto's eyes shoot open, nearly falling on his face as he leans for what is no longer there. He looks up at Jack, who is tucking himself away, with hands as shaky as Ianto feels. Jack grins crookedly, mouth wet and indented from his teeth. "Not yet," he says and gestures Ianto up.

Ianto is more sore than he thinks, rising. Jack reaches down and pulls him the rest of the way up and turns him so Ianto can see himself in the mirror, Jack behind him like a dark angel. "Look at yourself. Mouth all tarted up." Jack bites him then on the side of his neck, like a vampire, teeth gouging, hard, sucking pressure that makes Ianto cry out despite himself ( _no talking_ ), fingers knotting on the sink's lip. 

When Jack's done, wet smack of lips on skin, there's a bruise, darkly mauve and deepening quickly. Jack reaches down and rubs his palm over Ianto's cock, rough and familiar. "Everyone will know what happened in here. What you let me do. They'll see." Jack flicks the bruise.

He's completely right. The eyeliner has smudged, smoky rings around eyes that look drugged, glittering and staring above the red dolly mouth, abused and sluttish. Ianto's chest heaves, entirely too visible in the tight tee and the bruise on his neck is like a brand: Jack's boy. 

Ianto closes his eyes and leans back into Jack, panting.

*

Downstairs, Jack wraps Ianto in his coat again and Ianto thinks this is it, that they'll finally go back to Ianto's place. His blood feels molten, his body a lightning rod. It feels like one stiff breeze could set him off, except he can't, because Jack hasn't let him off the hook yet. His balls feel like stones, heavy and stiff.

Jack flags a cab and they tumble in together. Jack wraps around Ianto and ignores the muttered commentary of the cabbie but the address he gives isn't Ianto's and they turn up at a seedy strip club instead, glossy photos of half-dressed girls posturing and pouting pasted up on the brick. 

Inside, Jack pushes Ianto down into a chair and Ianto does his best not to think about what's underneath him, what's getting onto his trousers. At least they aren't really his, he supposes, and wonders what the hell they're doing there. Jack buys them both drinks, and makes Ianto take all of his in one go, liquid heat splashing down in his belly and spreading until Ianto feels boneless and warm.

 _Why are we here?_ he tries to ask, with eyes alone, as Jack takes a seat opposite him.

"Just wait," Jack shouts over the music, some tinny thumpa-thumpa pop with a bass line that makes Ianto's ears ache. 

When the girls come round, Jack talks to them, telling them Ianto's shy, too shy to talk to them, too shy to ask for what he wants. Jack's smile is very wide, very white, wolfish as he grins over the women's shoulders, past their hips. 

Jack stuffs money into their garters and then they come to Ianto, smiling in that pitying way, running their hands all over him, pushing their tits in his face, their cunts. Jack pays them to dance for Ianto and Ianto can only sit white-knuckled and let them, looking past them at Jack, who watches, only watches, hand on his face and curled fingers not quite masking his half smile.

Jack doesn't watch the girls. He only watches Ianto, and the intensity of that gaze seeps through Ianto like the booze, heating him up, driving him crazy, making him even harder as the girls grind and twirl and smile, barely seen. 

_Why,_ he wonders. _What do you want?_

He doesn't know what this is, he doesn't know why this, unless Jack is planning to bring one of these trashy girls back with them, watch Ianto shag her or shag her himself. He wouldn't put it past Jack and, although the thought hurts in some deep, pinching way, it's oddly arousing as well; the thought of Jack watching Ianto go at it for a change, standing on the sidelines, forced to be a spectator. 

Or, better, Jack directing them both, telling Ianto where to put his hands, where to put his cock, telling Ianto how to fuck her—how hard, how long—arranging them how he likes, in a way that pleases him…

And it's too much. Ianto feels like he's only hanging on by his fingernails, desperate and fretful, squirming in the chair despite himself. Sweat trails sluggishly down his spine, between the cheeks of his naked arse, making him slick. He moves his hand to tug his balls—just a little, just to relieve the pressure—but stops himself before he actually makes contact, aware of Jack, _so fucking aware of Jack_ , sitting there, watching him.

Jack lunges up from the chair, pushing the girls aside and jerks Ianto to his feet. Spins him around and shoves him at the exit. Ianto's stumbling, clumsy and wobble-kneed as a colt, nearly blind with the blood pulsing through his temples. The cold of the outside slaps Ianto in the face, stunning, as Jack bullies him down the street. A block away, and then into an alley, driving Ianto chest-first against the brick with an oof.

One hard tug pulls Ianto's hips away from the wall. "Hands," Jack says tersely, unbuckling the belt, brutalizing the zipper. Ianto obediently presses his palms to the wall, cold brick and rough edges. The trousers go, jerked down to Ianto's knees. Jack kicks Ianto's legs wide and Ianto spreads them, tilting back. 

Ianto hears the noises he's making: quiet, pleading, needy as all fuck, but it's far away, like music in another room, disregarded and not nearly as important as the startling and slick push of Jack's miraculously lubed fingers between Ianto's legs. 

Ianto's head hangs from the end of his neck, too heavy to lift, and he sobs for it as Jack reams him, spreads him open for cock, Jack's cock, and it's too soon and not nearly soon enough as Jack fits himself behind Ianto, arm wrapping around his waist. 

"All damn night." A grunt and a twist and Jack guides himself to Ianto's opening, guides himself in. A hard push and Ianto takes him—Christ, takes him—groaning, pushing himself back and down. He didn't know it could be like this. It wasn't like this with Lisa. Not 'til she was dying and that was totally different. He didn't know you could come out of your skin like this and not hate it—quite the contrary—that you could want it with all that you are. "All damn night I've been wanting to do this."

 _Then why didn't you?_ he wants to demand, but really what he wants is just more. More of Jack, more of Jack in him, and he braces his hands and rides it, rides Jack's cock.

"'N you want this too, don't you? Pleading with me with those bedroom eyes. Jesus, Ianto, do you have any idea what you look like? All the time in those clean, tight suits, tie so neatly tied, buttoned up and just begging—begging—for someone to come and mess you up, make you scream, make you beg…?" Jack's hand wraps around Ianto's cock, stroking in time with the piston of his hips.

_Yes. Please, Jack. Please._

Every thrust drives Ianto into the wall, despite his bracing arms. He scrapes his cheek, his chest, bangs his head…doesn't care. Doesn't care.

"And everyone saw you. Everyone saw you tonight and they knew. They knew who you belonged to."

_Oh, fuck. There. **There.** Yes, God, please, a little more…_

"And you want it. You liked it. You hate it too, but mostly you like it. Oh, Ianto, tell me you like it." Jack's voice is scaling up, wavering, losing it and he did that. He did. Ianto Jones. "Tell me, damn it, talk to me!"

Ianto sobs out, like he's been holding his breath all this time, waiting. 

And on the next breath: "Yes. _God._ Yes, Jack, yes. Yes…"

Jack flattens Ianto to the wall, nuzzling behind his ear, savaging the nape of his neck and Ianto lets him, Ianto lets him, Ianto lets Jack take him, take whatever he wants, until they both spiral out of it completely, fucked and fucked and fucked some more.

_Yes._

**Author's Note:**

> Original Notes: Okay, first of all, can I say that I simply and sincerely cannot remember the last time I had a writing frenzy like this? I shit you not, the whole first draft from start to finish was written in just under 3 hours. And just…wow.
> 
> I've been complaining (with justification) that La Muse, Kink, has gone off on one of his usual unplanned vacations and writing anything has been so horribly difficult, I want to cry. I have so many things that I started and he just walked out in the middle of. And when I was initially talking about this idea with technosage and then, later, merepersiflage, I was kind of terrified to start it (such an alluring idea) and then have it peter out dryly somewhere in the early stages. I just…I don't know if any of you have had that feeling, that terror, but it's horrible.
> 
> But, I said 'fuck it' and started it anyway, because I'm totally stuck on everything else and it was really burning hot in my mind and I watched TW today and I was all fired up about Ianto. And I sat down and wrote it in under three frickin' hours! And it is wondrous in our eyes.
> 
> Anyway. technosage is the one that talked out the initial idea with me and I think I sort of lifted the bathroom interlude from her. She says not, she says it was the lapdances and the club and Ianto getting his mouth fucked. So I'm gonna take her word for it and take that as her Stamp of Approval, because really we were both riffing off each other, talking about our deep love for Jack, Ianto, Jack/Ianto and delicious ways that Jack can debauch Ianto and this story completely came from that discussion. So many thanks to her.
> 
> I then pitched the idea to merepersiflage, who enabled encouraged me and gave me the final decision as to Alley Sex or Sex Back at Ianto's Flat. Personally, I think she was dead on, what do you think? Anyway, the fact that I actually went and wrote the story at all is probably attributable to her. And she has my thanks for it.
> 
> derryderrydown got the unenviable task of Britpicking this monster and did an amazing job of doing so, not even talking down to me when I made stupid mistakes that I knew better than to do. As always, she has my undying gratitude and any mistakes are solely the fault of the stupid Yank.
> 
> And then, of course, mona1347 who got to tighten the corset straps, slap me on the arse and send this puppy out to show. My ficwife, y'all, isn't she pretty?


End file.
